


Origins

by plentyofmalk



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Sci-Ops Era (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plentyofmalk/pseuds/plentyofmalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Fitz has a crash-course in cohabitation with Jemma Simmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origins

She’s trying. Really, she’s trying very hard not to laugh, because she knows he hates feeling laughed at. But she just can’t help it. She was sitting peacefully, minding her own business at her – _Their_ , she reminds herself. _You share an apartment now._ – dining table, when a shriek that could rival her own rang out from the kitchen. She didn’t even have time to be concerned for him before the low roar of ‘ _Simmonnnnss!’_ filled the apartment. And really, that’s what does it, because he sounds so cartoonish when he’s angry.  


_He saw the mouse_ , Jemma thinks, and just knows he’s going to insist on an exterminator rather than allowing her to catch and release it humanely. Maybe with the right convincing, he could even be persuaded to let her keep it…

Through his bellowing in the last thirty seconds, she’s not startled. She’s used to Fitz now, and knows he’s prone to outbursts. She doesn’t even flinch until something lands on the table next to her tea with a dull thump, causing her to realize he’s now standing across the table, staring at her crossly. She looks back down. It’s not the mouse (Cheese-ter, she’s named him. Ooh, maybe Fitz will be nicer about the poor guy once he knows she’s humanized him!). Instead, after a quick squint, she realizes it’s actually–

“Fitz, is it so much to ask you to respect my materials?!” She admonishes. “You don’t see me throwing your screwdrivers around!”

He acknowledges her, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he proposes a question of his own. “Can you tell me what this is, Simmons?”

In his hand, he’s dangling a sandwich bag.

“It looks like a poorly made bologna sandwich. You’re free to make your sandwiches with my groceries, you know. I even bought extra prosciutto at the deli counter for you the other day.”

“I can’t make it as good as you.” It tumbles out of his mouth before he looks down at his feet, bashful. Then, remembering he’s supposed to be mad about something, he shakes the ziploc and it’s contents at her again. “And not the point, by the way! The point is this is my lunch! So do you mind explaining to me what _that_ ,” he gestures to the item he’s tossed on the table, “is doing next to it?”

She laughs again, because he makes this gaping-landlocked-fish face when he’s even the slightest bit indignant, and apparently he feels _very_ indignant right now.

“In my defense,” she counters, gesturing to the item in front of her, “this was in the fridge before your sandwich was.”

“And how does that make it any better?”

“I’m not saying it makes anything better or worse, only that you should really be mad at yourself for putting your sandwich next to my specimen–”

“Let’s not dance around it here, Simmons! Your _cat liver_. Your cat liver was next to my lunch and now my poor sandwich has to go into the garbage and I’m going to starve. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“The lab fridge was full, I had to take it home! Trust me, you do _not_ want to know what that tissue smells like if left out overnight.”

He visibly turns a shade paler than he already is. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh come on, Fitz,” she rolls her eyes, “it’s perfectly contained, and so is your sandwich. There’s no need for dramatics.”

When he doesn’t respond, still visibly trying to quell his stomach and breathing dramatically through his nose, she takes advantage.

“This is really your fault, you know.”

“How is being a victim of your demented Fridge of Horrors my fault?” He clutches his sandwich-holding fist to his chest, then removes it as far away from his body as possible, like he can smell decay on it.

“How many times have I had to tell you about my system?” Jemma holds up the bag he tossed at her, shaking it for good measure because of the rise it gets out of him. When she looks at his sandwich pointedly, he does too, and she sees him make the connection. Both are placed in a ziploc, the same size and shade of–

“‘B’ is for ‘blue’ is for ‘biological’.” She sing-songs.

He raises his hands in frustration, punctuated by a groan that gradually gets louder, louder, before petering out. Dropping to the seat across from her, he tosses the sandwich aside and puts his head in his hands, defeated.

“Fine!” He admits. “You win. We’ll go with your system.” He mumbles something under his breath after that. She’s pretty sure it sounds like _‘It’s not a completely terrible idea’_ , but is happy to let it sit rather than push it. (She doesn’t need his approval, anyways. She knows it’s a good system.)

“Can I make it up to you with another sandwich?”  


He nods at the peace offering, cheeks still resting on his palms, looking at her hopefully. She doesn't even tease him when she walks past, liver in hand. Instead, she makes a big show of putting it at the bottom of the fridge. He rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest. After all, she told him he doesn't wanna know what it smells like if left out for too long, and he believes her.

Then she remembers what she thought he was mad about, and starts laughing even more at the silliness of it all, which Fitz does not seem to find amusing. She knows this because he tells her.

“This isn’t funny, Simmons!” He huffs.

She does her best to catch her breath. “No, no, of course not! It’s just, this whole time I thought you were mad about a mouse, when really you were mad about a cat. It’s quite funny when you–”

“There’s a _mouse_?!”

_____________________________

A week later, Jemma concedes to purchase a mini fridge ( _‘To be kept in your room,’_ Fitz stipulates.) She’s just finished setting it up in the corner next to her dresser when she hears Fitz come through the front door of their apartment, calling her name excitedly.

She greets him in the living room to find that he’s come home with a purchase of his own: an exercise wheel for Cheese-ter, who’s now happily contained in a cage in their living room.

**Author's Note:**

> From Tashonix, who requested "things you said at the kitchen table" on tumblr.
> 
> Wanna be my friend? I'm plentyofmalk on tumblr, too!


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